So life is hard

So...

Life is hard.  This may be obvious to some people, but it wasn't to me.  This whole "juggling seminary, work, and trying to make ends meet" thing is nigh-impossible.  Besides doing my school stuff and work, I'm working as a freelance writer to try to make ends meet.  Whatever impressions you may have about writers being shiftless layabouts who do nothing all day are absolutely incorrect.  Writing is hard.  Marketing your writing is even harder.

In other news, I haven't been here in two months.  What have I been doing?  School.  Life.  Stuff.  LOTS of stuff.  Trying to keep my head above water (with limited success) and wishing I had gills.

Anyway, I'm back now.

1984

George Orwell's 1984 is an excellent book, but I'm not sure he was right.  I read Brave New World recently, and think Huxley had it more right than Orwell.  Based on how dependent Americans are on technology, we will be ruled by "feelies" more than Big Brother.  I'm fully aware that the Patriot Act says otherwise.

Maybe it's a mix of both, and they are all right in some way or other?  For example, maybe Orwell's view of the stratification of society is correct, but Huxley's view of what rules human passion is correct.  Maybe neither is right.  Either way...you don't have to take my word for it.  Read the book.

God of the forest

On the mission trip, the all-white team taught Vacation Bible School to the children.  The Mississippi band of Choctaw were those who had hidden from the forced evictions and genocide in 1832 which came to be known as the Trail of Tears.  I, personally, was deeply uncomfortable teaching that God works in all circumstances (for that was one night's discussion) to children whose people knew that kind of history.  Until I got there.  Most of the children welcomed us, and most of the adults tolerated us.

I say most.  There were those children who threw tree bark and spouted racist comments, but most were alright. 

It really hit home that before we are Choctaw, white, or anything else, we are imago dei (made in the image of God), and I had forgotten that at Wesley, to my shame and sorrow.  Sometimes in theological education, you're so busy looking at the trees you forget that God created the whole damn forest.

Saying Yes and Stone Tablets

Saying yes to something means saying no to something else.  If you choose one path, then you are by default saying no to another.  Woo.  However, saying "no" to something means you're saying yes to something else, you just might not know what it is yet.  How's that for easy to follow?

By closing the door to the path for ordained ministry, I am opening other doors, to other options.  I have no idea what those are, but they are there, somewhere.  Granted, that does not make this move any less heartbreaking.  I have put four years of education and thousands of dollars (seminary education is not cheap; Jesus would not be impressed) into pursuing ordained ministry.

And now I can't.

Romans says that all things work together for the good of those who love God; who are called according to His purpose.  I have no idea what that purpose is, but I'm trusting God to work stuff out.  Though, I must admit, a hint would be nice.  So would a stone tablet.

Meant to be read aloud

They say that, to make any sense, poetry has to be read aloud.  Like it's all line and punctuation and periods and words.  But how can you read aloud the poetry of a kiss when the whole world stops to watch what you're doing but you don't care because you're wrapped in the moment and the moment's wrapped in you and you're there and it's just....

ocean waves kiss the shore.  No, they make love to the shore in sweet serene stillness that goes in and out...in....out...like breath.  Like love.

I'll read aloud the poetry of you in kisses that somehow become gasps because you touch me.  I'll read the poetry of your face in nights that start late and end even earlier.  Nights that turn your whole world upside down simply because you came.

Or maybe those were days.  I'm not really sure.  But you were there, and I was there, and we were reading poetry together with our lips.

Starting Over

There once was a man, who for privacy's sake I'll call Jake.  I was introduced to him by the girl who later broke his heart, and we became close friends as we worked out his issues surrounding that breakup and my crush on another one of her exes.  If it sounds crazy, that's because it was.  We both loved music and poetry; he had a glorious tenor voice that sounded like velvet on your ears.  He hated it.

He became my own personal Judas.  We wound up in this weird place where we were not-quite-lovers but more-than-friends.  He kept telling me he was a terrible guy for me, and I knew he was right.  I learned, however, that both love and lust are slippery slopes, and once you start falling there's no stopping unless someone catches you or you crash-land.

We crash-landed.  Hindenberg-style.  Now Jake wants to start over and build a relationship again.  In a lot of ways, it's like he's come back from the dead.  I don't know what to do.

Ships at a distance

Ships at a distance carry every man's wishes.
I have studied many times the marble which was chiseled for me
a ship with a furled sail at rest in a harbor
in truth, my wishes have never left the dock
have never been packed into trunks for a journey
never even been put on a map

Ships at a distance carry every man's wishes.
I am, however, not a man; I am a woman.
It is also helpful to have a map.
I don't even have a compass.
All I have is restlessness and vagueness.
A question.

Ships at a distance carry every man's wishes.
Do they carry mine?

I am a writer

I love words.  I love the way they fit together like puzzle pieces, each having a different part of a word picture.  I love how a skilled wordsmith can craft an image using only a few hushed syllables of poetry and hover over them to create a new work of art in letter and silence and sound.  Silversmiths take the same care making stunning bracelets.

I love that red is different than scarlet is different than crimson.  Each word has a specific meaning, and should be used with care.  This does occasionally mean I am overly specific when communicating.  I like for words to convey precisely what I mean and/or exactly what happened.  However, if the answer to a question needs to be a simple yes or no, then I am very bad at that.

Passive-Aggressive Bullshit is Bad. This is a Blog Rant.

So, tonight, i opened a conversation with someone who I thought was a friend with "So, why have you randomly stopped speaking to me?"  This, sadly, is not the first conversation I have had like this.  People randomly quit talking to me for stupid reasons then wait for me to figure out that they are in fact avoiding me and then I have to be the asshole and be like "Yo.  What in the hell?"

I hate those conversations.  They are awkward and painful and never, EVER, EVER end well.  They usually end with at least one person in tears.  Here's what happens:  all the negative stuff builds up continuously, with more and more pressure like magma in a volcano.  There is some sort of conflict and then that conflict is resolved...or not.  

This whole cycle can be avoided with a simple "hey dude* you're being dickish" WHEN THE DUDE IN QUESTION IS PERCEIVED AS BEING DICKISH.  Not six months later when it doesn't even matter any more.  This also requires the dude in question to have the emotional maturity to accept that he or she might in fact be being dickish.  

Maybe that's the problem.  Maybe nobody is emotionally stable enough to admit that sometimes they act like a dick, so we're stuck with nobody saying anything to each other and being passive aggressive.  Wonderful.

~~ fin ~~

*note:  I use dude equally to apply to people of all genders.

A piece of music

I am considering writing a piece of music around the theme "Who am I."  Not necessarily me myself, but that theme in general.  It will be for duet with each voice having a different musical theme.  My goal for this piece is to illustrate the different forces that go into making us who we are, but perhaps it's a bit beyond me.  In a way, this piece may be as much about the interaction between the Self and the world as it is about knowing yourself.

There is the Self, which will have the main theme and be as questioning as I can make it, particularly at first.  This piece is coming out of my own struggles with myself, after all.  Toward the end, the main theme will return, steady and sure of itself.  I don't know yet if this will be a vocal or instrumental piece; I don't have words for it.

Then, there is the Other, which at times supports and at times misleads the Self.  By the end of the piece, the two themes will resolve not to unison, but to harmony, though they will go through conflict before then.  At times, the Self will be lost to the Other, but the piece will be always seeking balance.

That's the key--balance.  Harmony.

Now...to compose!

One bread, One Body

I just got back from a mission trip to Choctaw, Mississippi, USA.  My team and I ministered to (not with) the Choctaw people by putting on a Vacation Bible School at Great Spirit UMC.  I helped teach first and second grade.  Oh my Lord.  I knew it would be a challenge, but I never expected THAT MUCH of a challenge.  I have a deep respect for anyone who works with children on a regular basis.

Children's ministers, elementary school teachers/workers, daycare providers...my hat is off to you.  Cheers!

On this mission trip, i was struck by how very "white" the Bible school materials were, and how little effort the team made to be in ministry with the people rather than to them.  We had very few Choctaw assistants, and it felt like we were the white people once again trying to force our religion and culture onto the Native American people.

Then I saw the kids.

The kids come from unspeakable homes.  Homes of abuse of all kinds, poverty, and despair.  These same kids came running to the vans so they could go to bible school for a two hour break where they could learn about Jesus and be kids.  They care about stickball (a Choctaw sport), basketball, and each other.

I am white, but before I am white, I am human.  The kids are Choctaw, but before they are Choctaw, they are human.  God has made of one blood all nations of the earth.

This is imago dei.  There is a hymn in the United Methodist Hymnal that says it much better than I can.  "One bread, one body, one Lord of all.  One cup of blessing which we bless.  And we, though many throughout the earth, we are one body in this one Lord."

Psalm: Two Haikus

Save me, God of All
waters will drown me
"remember your baptism"

Dreams turn to ashes
Poured like wax, add baptism
"Can still use this." --God

Robert Frost

Nature's first green is gold, according to Frost; its hardest hue to hold.  Nothing gold can stay.  That's certainly true.  I have moved around a lot in my life, and it's weird how nothing ever lasts forever--not even goodbye.  People, places, things have a way of coming back to you when you least expect it.  It sounds trite, and probably is, but its true.

The only constant in life is change, but that's alright.  Leaf subsides to leaf.  Change does not always mean death.  The beauty of a sunrise is transient, too.  It matures to bright noon.  Even the night has its share of beauty.  Without the night, the beauty of the milky way would never be seen, now would it?

We are having to say "see ya later" to a good friend.  She's graduating and moving far away.  We'll miss her deeply.  However, I know that she's going on to bigger and better things.  :-)  I wouldn't want to keep her cooped in the nest forever, and am honored to have known her.

Fly free, Melissa.  We'll always be here for you.

Song of Songs

The Song of Songs is in the Bible.  It is some of the raciest poetry in existence, and I encourage anyone who likes smut to read it.  If you don't like smut, then I still encourage you to read it, because this is BIBLICAL smut, and some of the oldest Hebrew love poetry in existence.

Now, that being said, why does the Christian church idolize virginity?  I, personally, blame Paul.  And patriarcy.  And the fact that getting pregnant out of wedlock can make it damn difficult to tell who the father of the child is.  And then there's the whole "blessed Mary ever-virgin" thing.  Don't get me started on that one.

So what does it mean to be pure and holy without idolizing virginity?

Welcome to the journey

I don't even really know what a blog is or is supposed to do or be or become.  For that matter, I don't know any of that about myself, so I guess that's somehow apropos.  I am 24 years old, with no idea what to do with the rest of my life, currently in pursuit of a Master's degree in Divinity of all things.  I have absolutely no desire to be a pastor.  What does that leave?  Not much.

You, dear reader, are free to journey with me as I figure this stuff out.  Expect randomness.  Expect weirdness.  Expect talk of God, music, science-fiction, and the wonders of a well-brewed cup of tea.  If any of the above is not okay with you, then there are other blogs you can waste your time reading.

Welcome to the journey.